


Mohammed's Mount

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Fiction, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-14
Updated: 2004-02-14
Packaged: 2018-11-20 21:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11343186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Mohammed's Mount

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Mohammed's Mount

### Mohammed's Mount

#### by Flutesong

  


Title: Mohammed's Mount  
Author: Flutesong  
E-mail:   
Site: www.hegalplace.com/flutesong  
Warnings: M/K Slash  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: After RatB then AU  
Notes: A quick treat for Dr. Ruthless and M/K month at the NickZone Thanks to Kashmir for the beta. All the remaining nonsense is mine. September 2003  
Disclaimer: Simply Self Abusement 

Mohammed's Mount 

Alex sits in his aerie. Impatient with the silence, when he'd said to himself not five minutes ago, that no news was 'good' news. That his peace was well earned. He spins on the wheeled stool, quickly scanning the panoramic view through all five windowpanes. 

He scans the sophisticated equipment too. Nothing, nada, zip, all is quiet and serene. The birds' flutter, the leaves wave, the occasional column of dust gathers and dissipates in the winds. "Goddamn motherfucking son-of-a-bitch", he lets the familiar string of profanity out in a rushed breath, pauses and says, "goddamn mother-fucking cocksucking son-of-a-bitch, who'd'a thought I would miss the bloody mess!" He says this quite loudly and startles himself with the echo that comes back off the clear expanses of glass. 

He runs his hand across his unshaven jaw, down his bare chest and fingers the loose, raggedy ends of his sloppy cutoffs. "Pathetic, Alex, old boy," he says aloud, and finally admits to himself that he 'is' tired of the silence. He spins madly about on the stool for emphasis. He jars his knee and jumps off the stool. He kicks the offending furniture and sends it crashing into the side of the metal desk. The resulting clang is somewhat satisfying. 

He thinks briefly about trashing the whole place and shooting holes into the unbreakable glass. Then he remembers it is his place and his glass, and thinks better of the impulse. He checks the dials once more, although there is nobody around who could've changed the settings since his last check. He stomps down the circular stairway, goes through the living area and defiantly turns on the hot tub in the glass-enclosed bath, full blast. He shucks the shorts, pauses, and goes back into the living area. He switches on the CD unit, grabs a copy of the Stones Greatest Hits and shoves it in the player. He turns the volume up to ear splitting and the bass to jet-engine intensity and stomps back to the bath. 

For a few minutes, in the middle of the crashing, blasting, wall vibrating, scalding water imbued environment, he feels comfortable. It sounds like something is happening, even if nothing really is. "I'm not a monk," he says inaudibly. "I've read one hundred and thirty-seven books, watched two hundred and twelve movies, explored the entire Internet and learned how to shoot squirrels with the new prosthetic arm. I've eaten everything 'but' the squirrels and I'm talking to myself. I gotta get the hell outta this place!" He splashes water over the side of the tub just to watch it run down the drain in the center of the room and soak the dark blue rugs a darker blue along the way. "Or at least I gotta get out long enough to find something to drink and someone to fuck before I come back." 

Thus said, he shuts off the tub, decides to get a shave and a haircut in town and dresses. The top button of his jeans is tight. He decides it's because he's still damp from the bath or the workouts on his abs has built up a strong layer of muscle. The waistband cuts into his air supply and he huffs a bit bending over and dragging on his boots. His jacket is reassuringly large, he stuffs the various pockets with guns, money, condoms, and his favorite bone handled switchblade. He looks in the mirror on the way out and decides maybe he doesn't need the shave and haircut after all. "Lookin' good," he says to the tough guy in the reflection, turns on all the `away' alarm devices and shuts the door behind him. 

* * *

Mulder careens on his new, wheeled office chair from light table to computer monitor and back again. It's quiet for once and there are only a few workaholics hanging around this evening. Almost a third of the entire basement of the Hoover has been transformed into the XFiles Division. He knows the names of all his staff, but only because of his handy-dandy retentive memory. Scully is in her element. They are co-heads. He thinks this is funny as hell; and says 'Cone Heads' in his mind every time and 'We are from France'. 

She has her own staff of scientists with iron stomachs, who don't get queasy during X-File autopsies. From his 'head' office, he can look through a wide expansion of glass, across the vast berth of other agent's desks and equipment, right into her expanse of glass and her office. She never draws the ubiquitous beige blinds for privacy. He knows she enjoys the view of busy, dedicated worker-bees. 

He hates all of it. Their staffs roam from case to case, write up meticulous reports, and take a large number of pictures, samples and readings. Everything is coached in official Fibbie-speak and most of the findings are finalized and tagged as non-paranormal. Once in a while, the reports are serialized and appear in the various medical, scientific and para-science journals. They have a ninety-seven percent case closure rate. 

The MUFON, alien believers and conspiracy theorists rave at him and the X-Files division. They have now become the official 'enemy' of revealing the 'Truth'. 

He longs for the days when he was reviled by Officialdom and respected by the fringe elements. The fucking basement, no matter how vast, still has no windows to the outside that one can see without standing on a chair. 

He rides his chair, at a fast clip, by the gleaming rows of technology and into his office. He yanks the blinds and they fall with a clatter, enclosing him in familiar and comfortable dimness. He has posters and pictures on the wall that he refuses to let the staff frame. He has the best in round trashcans for his basketball shooting practice, but the ceiling is some kind of new, healthier material and it doesn't hold pencils. Everything gleams, even in the dimness. There are hardly any dust motes rising and falling mysteriously in the half-light. 

"I'm going home," he mutters to himself very quietly, less the eagerbeaver ears, of some staff member or other, thinks he is asking them a question. Home is a clean three-year-old condominium built over what was once interesting turn of the century ruins. He hates the place and wonders why the hell he let himself be talked into buying it after the quiet dirty war was over, and he got the big fat raise in lieu of the public disclosure he really wanted. 

Scully got the raise too and bought an actual house with a garden, sunroom and gazebo. She holds Sunday afternoon sessions with her staff there, although they are thinly disguised professorial 'teas', like the ones he remembers attending with Phoebe at Oxford. He doesn't attend and Scully has given up bitching at him for his lack of niceties and getting to know the staff on a social basis. 

In fact, she has given up on almost everything they once shared. The intimacy engendered by the secrecy and paranoia of their investigations is gone. The heightened awareness of each other's state of mind and physical safety is gone too. With these things gone, the passionate, if chaste, bond between them is gone as well. 

He missed it terribly at first. Other than the occasional onenighter' s, when she was elsewhere and did little to satisfy his stifled personal needs, that simmering, sexy connection had gone a long way to help him feel as if he were still potent and desired. 

"Goddamned sorry son-of-a-bitch", he mutters a little louder. He viciously switches off his equipment, leaves the blinds down and turns off the light. He kicks the chair into the desk as he leaves. It makes a mild thunking sound when it connects. Dissatisfied, he leaves, locking the door, and doesn't say goodnight on his way out. 

At home he slams the most outrageous orgy video into his new DVD player and the writhing mass of bodies quickly appears on his widescreen TV. He turns the sound of their grunts, groans, 'yeah, baby's' and screams way up. He leaves the lights off and the doors to the bedroom and bath open. He undresses quickly, tossing the whole pile into the bottom of his walk-in closet. 

He has a once-a-week maid who'll sort it out and get it to the cleaners. He'll find it all neatly put away in a few days. He showers and shaves quickly, dresses in his favorite gray T-shirt and finds the zipper on his well washed, perfectly pressed jeans is somewhat difficult of close. "Motherfucker!" He yells at the noisy TV. "I've got to stop eating the morning array of donuts and swilling enchiladas with Frohike twice a week" He kicks over the neat row of shoes on the left side of his closet floor and bends, with a groan, to fetch his favorite sneakers. 

He deliberately tries to make his mind go blank. He eats those greasy messes with Frohike because the other two friends died along the way to this end. Skinner is gone too, alive, but bitterly not seeing him or anyone. He took a bullet that sentenced him to a wheelchair, garbled speech, and constant nursing care. He's in a fabulous care facility on the banks of a beautiful river. Mulder knows he hates it, hates the rushing water he can't fish in and hates the forced inactivity. The FBI retired him as a Deputy Director with a lush package. Mulder knows it means nothing to Skinner. 

Mulder turns on the security devices, grabs his leather jacket, and gets in his car. It's a brand new sport-utility vehicle with computerized navigation standard. He slams the door shut and revs the engine. He thinks when he turns forty, nineteen months hence; he'll have a real middle-aged crisis and get a red Jag to celebrate it. The thought, that he'd take the thing and drive it over the Fourteenth Street Bridge and into the Potomac River, whispers seductively. 

For now, he backs out of the narrow garage and carefully onto the busy street. He's cautious as he drives over the Fourteenth Street Bridge and refuses to note the steel pylon supports. Once he gets on Interstate, he shifts into gear and lets go. It's Friday night and he's heading south toward Richmond or beyond and if he's late on Monday morning, no one will give a damn. 

* * *

By two A.M. Mulder has had enough of driving through the dark at eighty miles an hour. He sees a disreputable bar with a ratty motel behind it off the next exit. "Just the thing!" He crows to himself as he takes the turn, and opens the widows to get a blast of cold night air in his face. With the cool air comes his own second wind and strong feeling that tonight 'something' will happen to relieve the dangerous boredom and heft him out of the civilized rut he's fallen into. 

He sees the faces that have haunted him for so long flash by in the exit light's reflections on the hood of his car. He sighs and lets them go, go, go into the darkness behind him. The dust settles, like his unanswered questions, back into the pot-holed parking lot. He hears the country guitars twang, with an oddly sophisticated bass line beneath, catching the beat of his heart and firing the blood in his veins, as he approaches the entrance to the bar. 

The place is packed. The country boys in flannel plaid or open necked polyester shirts and their too tightly, brightly garbed women are mingled among the better-dressed yuppies and a few 'others', dressed in black leather or with visible tattoos on bare muscled masculine arms or curvaceous feminine legs barely covered in tight denim miniskirts. The asses and backs he sees at the bar are equally clad in various class-conscious materials too. 

He likes the feel of the place immediately and gets it that everyone is here to listen to the music, the mysteriously jazzy bass player, to drink away their weekly concerns, dance and, if lucky, get laid. It's exactly what he wants. 

He sees an empty, small, dime sized, round table in the far back. He snags a chair from a dancing party's table and holds it over his head as he makes his way to the back. 'Let them try to get it back,' he thinks and his teeth show as he smiles, almost anticipating a fight. 

"No way," Alex says aloud from his position at the bar and the view in the mirror reflecting the action on the floor. No one actually hears him, the music is too loud or they're talking to someone else. He watches Mulder snatch the chair and head toward the small empty table in the darkened corner. Mulder's hips momentarily distract him as he bumps his way through the crowd. "Well, well, well," he murmurs softly. "Who would'a thought it? This gin joint and all that?" He notes that Mulder's jeans are so tight they look like they're painted on, or maybe he just hopes so. 

Alex stares down at the foam in his beer mug. He's only just gotten to his second drink and was enjoying being among the multitude so much, he hadn't even begun to prowl for fuckable material. He smiles to himself ruefully, `The most fuck-worthy material I've ever seen is a scant thirty feet away and, most assuredly, as uninterested as ever.' Alex sighs, 'Screw this!' He thinks of his defeatism. 'It's a brave new world and all bets are off. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and when the hell did he ever really get to have a chance with Mulder before? A chance at anything?' He gulps down the rest of his beer and orders two bottles. He pays the barkeep and, snagging his own chair from a nearby table, makes his way toward the dark corner, Mulder, and maybe even a kill shot in the gut with the small caliber he knows the man carries strapped to his shin. 

His even white smile fools no one, as he stalks his quarry in the corner. The crowd makes room as he ambles through. No one touches him or bumps into him along the way and the smarter ones make sure their eyes don't take note, in case of official inquiry later in the evening. 

Mulder hardly has time to process the strange sight of the black gloved, stiff hand as it lays two bottles on the table in front of him, before he registers to whom the hand must belong. He starts to rise, but "Now, now, Mulder," is hissed in his left ear and he sits down. 

Alex plops his chair close enough to Mulder so, when he sits, their thighs are jammed together. Mulder tries to make space, but the table leg prevents it. He compensates by shifting his ass and spreading his legs wider, attempting to make Krycek move over. Alex refuses to accommodate him and they hunker down, plastered together from hip to knee. 

Alex abruptly stops the mano-et-mano bullshit and gestures toward the beers. "Drink it while it's cold," he says in a normal voice, loud enough to be heard above the noise. Mulder almost begins a litany of objections, realizes he hasn't ordered a drink of his own, nods ungraciously and grabs the beer. 

Alex drinks too. 

After a long taste and a few sips, Mulder relaxes and shrugs, as if Fate was once again giving him a homerun hit to sit up and take notice of her. "I get it, I get it," he says aloud to Fate, but only Alex hears him. "Get what?" He asks, "You want another beer?" Mulder laughs and Alex smiles, uncertain what Mulder finds funny, but glad suddenly, that he hasn't been shot. Glad, suddenly, that he's alive. 

When Mulder is finished laughing, they are relaxed against one another from shoulder to knee. Krycek makes a point of not moving an inch, fully aware that, if he makes anything of their nearness Mulder might realize it and get skittish again. 

Mulder orders the next beer. Krycek drinks this one very slowly. Six months dry, a fourth beer may be pushing his reflexes. "Of all the gin joints." Mulder toasts him. Krycek nods and toasts back. He dares, now, to lay his hand on Mulder's thigh. 

Mulder laughs again, deeper in his throat. Alex can feel the reverberations from Mulder's body in his own. He's hard as stone and the damn waistband of his jeans is biting into him. "If you kiss me in here," Mulder says, "I'll shoot you." 

"If you don't kiss me as soon as we're outta here," Alex says, "I'll leave you gutted in the parking lot." Mulder nods and lets his hand drift under the table and onto Krycek's lap. He feels Krycek almost jump out of the chair and he laughs. "So, 'Alex'," he says slyly, and with emphasis on Krycek's seldom used first name, into his ear, "how long has it been?" Alex retaliates with a thumb pressed along Mulder's erection, but he says, with bleak honesty, "Forever and a day." 

Mulder is taken aback by the poetic words and the desolate tone of Alex's voice. 'Oh god,' he thinks, `what am I doing?'Krycek has always been a deep, murky pool he's never been able to navigate. He begins to back off, tries to think, but his head is swimming with the music, the beer and Alex's knowing hand on his dick. He wants this. 

He wants back into the risky unknown, back into the taut stretch of extreme emotions and dangerous demands. His hips jerk into Alex's hand uncontrollably and he feels Alex's answering shudder. 'Yes,' he thinks to himself and "Yes," he says aloud and deliberately pushes himself hard into that hot, large, firm hand and grasps Alex's hard, hot cock firmly. 

"Yes, oh god! Yes, Mulder!" He hears Alex say, gasping into his ear. 

They leave the bar and kiss as soon as they're in the shadows of dilapidated building. 

Mulder follows Alex's black pick-up truck higher and higher into the Southern Virginian mountains. 

He thinks he might even call in Monday morning and let them know he's taking a long and extremely over due vacation. 

**THE END**   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Flutesong


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